


In Times of Old

by Porsennasaurus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porsennasaurus/pseuds/Porsennasaurus
Summary: A story of secret passages, ancient graves, maybe-dragons, goblins, magical jewelry, botched rituals, mind reading, Godric’s ratty old hat, and four people learning how to be friends - and maybe teach something too.(An attempt to write a historically accurate account of the Founding of Hogwarts.)





	1. The Island of Princes

Eostremonad, 878 AD

He ran like a wild animal, like a boar from hounds. Chest heaving-lungs straining-legs burning, his pounding feet threw up gouts of muddy water as he plunged off the track and into the marsh. In one hand he clutched a fine piece of woven cloth, rounded and tasseled. The image on the material was difficult to make out, drenched and stained with blood as it was. In his other hand he held an even finer blade, nearly three feet long, his arm now sagging with exhaustion and coming dangerously close to ending his own flight. If he was found with either one of these objects, he’d be put down like a dog. Both – well, he was running for a reason. He glanced back frantically as he slogged through the vegetation, hearing hoofbeats drumming closer, and shoved the cloth into his mouth, hoisting the sword above his head two-handed in an attempt to move even faster. He knew this land well, although he was somewhat new to the area; a fen was a fen after all, and if he made the hillock across this stretch of water before the horseman caught sight of him again, and if the ripples from his passing had settled, and if they were too angry to pay attention – 

If, if, if. He hoped they were just stupid.

But the horse would work to his advantage. Noblemen didn’t like to get their feet dirty, did they? He spat to the side at the thought, slowing down to a quick jog and taking the cloth back out of his mouth. They’d stay in the saddle, and marshland suffused from the recent spring rains was not the place for a horse. Encouraged by the thought, he paused briefly atop the hillock to check on their progress.

He swore and started running again when he saw the lone horseman galloping along parallel to the marsh instead of through it, they were going to try and cut him off before he reached the fort-he crooked a finger as he picked up speed and sent up a prayer that the goddamn Danes didn’t know how to handle an English swamp. He smiled nastily when he heard the resulting shout of surprise and the slow sucking sound of inexorable mud. The time it took the warriors to free their friend would hopefully buy him enough to make it to freedom. If only this accursed cloth wasn’t preventing him from leaping! He would have made it to the fort in an hour instead of a day. If it didn’t matter so much he would have sunk the damn thing before he even left the coast.

And who knew what awaited him when he reached the island of princes? He resolutely did not look at the sword he was now nearly dragging through the mire. He changed directions and kept an ear out for the horse, laughing bitterly to himself. If he could get far enough ahead of the Danes to make it clear he was being pursued, maybe he’d avoid being shot by the fortress guards long enough for them to execute him later for what he was carrying. 

He crested the next hillock, and with a burst of powerful relief finally sighted his goal not half a mile distant.

He was just coming down the slope and onto flat ground when, with a thundercrack of hooves and a furious scream, the horse whipped around from the blind side of the hill. It was on him in the blink of an eye, rearing, and only by throwing himself aside convulsively did he avoid having his head stove in. He tumbled across the ground, thrusting the sword he carried away from himself as he rolled. He staggered up and darted around the horse, which champed its bit and tried to shy away, eyes rolling. The rider chopped down at him as he slipped by; at the same time the horse, spooked out of the rider’s control by him running so close by underfoot, reared up again. This time its front hooves struck him squarely in the back and side, sending him sprawling forward and causing the strike to miss. 

He just managed to roll with the blow, coming to his feet again. He took off running, but the sudden grinding pain that dragged at his lungs made it difficult to focus and his pace was slow. Almost immediately the advantage he’d gained from the rider having to calm his horse down was lost as the man dismounted and came after him, leaving the animal for his fellows to catch.

They both splashed into the mire to one side of the bridge that led to the island; he glanced back and found the Dane only a few dozen feet behind. Upon seeing him looking the Dane pointed his sword at him, the meaning obvious. Gritting his teeth, he turned back and slogged faster. He wouldn’t risk using wiccung this close to the island; even now a mocel on the bridge had spotted them and was alerting the rest of the fortress. He swore and tried to pick up speed yet again but he was reaching the end of his endurance; the spots flashing in his vision were multiplying and he tried to squint past them to see the bridge. It turned out to be quite a bit closer than he anticipated and he choked on muddy water as the ground suddenly dropped out from under him, sliding into deeper water. He heard the splash only seconds later as the Dane entered the pool much more gracefully. Out of options, he shoved the hand holding the cloth underwater where the mocelas couldn’t see and desperately yanked downward, but while the Dane did disappear under the muck behind him, he shot up again immediately, shaking his sopping hair out of his eyes- 

They were at the bridge now and he managed to heave the sodden cloth up onto the floor timbers. It landed on a pair of boots; there was an indistinct shout of surprise but he didn’t hear it, as the Dane finally caught up to him and they began to wrestle for the sword he still held in his right hand. He struck out with it but the other man slammed his head into a bridge-post and his vision failed entirely for a moment- 

The ringing in his ears turned to a roar as he was forced underwater; he bore down and held onto the sword for dear life – he hadn’t come all this damn way with it for anyone to take it from him now. He began to thrash and thrust the sword blindly upward-the Dane jerked although he didn’t think he had actually hit him-

The sparkles were morphing into a solid, rushing wall of blackness. He faintly felt a hand grasp his collar as if from a great distance-

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke hacking up silty water, narrowly avoiding ruining a pair of very finely made leather boots that stood in front of him. Rolling away, he gritted his teeth at the screaming pain in his side, thumping an elbow on wooden planks as he struggled to get his feet under him. As he stood, he found a slim man, richly dressed, not much taller than himself and perhaps ten years his elder gazing calmly back. When the man didn’t say anything, just looked at him, he took the chance to observe his surroundings. There were no guards near them in the middle of the bridge, but the Dane lay a few feet away with an arrow sprouted neatly from his eye. Next to his body lay the sword and cloth, both wiped free of mud. 

“Now tell me how a Welsh slave in Mercian style comes to be running eastward in Wessex, chased by Danes.”

The command was posed quietly, but something about the fiercely intelligent look in the man’s eye put his hackles up. That, combined with the hand the man unconsciously held to his stomach made him suspicious. He caught the man’s eye and delved into his mind, furiously suppressing the urge to cough.

He was rebuffed moments later, which was singularly impressive in its own right for a wicce, let alone a mocel. But he had skimmed enough of the surface thoughts, tinged with a strong undercurrent of worry and an echoing whirlwind of plans and schemes, to glean his identity. 

“King Alfred.” he said, and bent a knee to the mocel who stood alone between Anglaland and the horde threatening to overrun her. 

Alfred of Wessex crossed his arms, tapped his mustache with a finger, and fixed him with that piercing gaze. 

“I may not be one of you, but I do recognize wiccung when I see it. I should have you killed immediately for entering my mind like that, let alone approaching this stronghold with a naked sword in your hand. Your disregard for the laws of this country is troubling indeed. However, as I am sure you know, what you have brought to me far outweighs your transgressions.” and here he reached out and lifted the rounded and tasseled cloth from where it lay over the sword. The king held it taut, and the sullen sun shed a little light on the exquisitely detailed raven embroidered thereupon. The bird turned and blinked a baleful eye at the two men. 

“This is the war banner of Lothbrok’s sons, and it represents the hope of that great heathen army which has so plagued us these last few years. You have stolen their fighting spirit and brought me a lever beyond any other to use against Guthrum. Many things are clear now that I know for sure these Danish kings we face are wiccas.”

The king now tapped the sword with his boot.  
“And whose sword is this?”

The banner-thief, still bent on one knee, answered.  
“Ubbe’s, my lord, the dux of Frisia.”

The king turned and looked sharply at him.  
“And he is dead?”

A nod.

“By your hand?”

“Yes.”

The king studied him for a long moment.  
“You have incurred great personal cost to bring me these things, knowing that it would mean your life if you were caught by Danes or English before you reached me.”

Here he paused.  
“Yet you do not strike me as a patriot. What is it you want in return?”

When the kneeling man was slow to speak, the king gestured impatiently.  
“Speak up, man, there is much to do.”

“My lord, you see clearly. There is a village north and east of here, held by Godric, known by many as gerefa-hinder. We in Godric’s hal are lately come as refugees from Mercia, as you have said. It is a cruel title, passed down from his father, sir.” he said, when the king raised an eyebrow at the name. “He holds on to the name out of a sense of familial loyalty, lord, but to be honest his father was a coward. He strives to do deeds of valor and bravery to improve his reputation but the name has stuck."

“And?”  
“...and I would ask that you take him into your service as a noble of Wessex, thus bolstering his status and clearing his name.”  
“You risked your life to come to me, yet you ask for another man to be given favor?”

The banner-thief shrugged.  
“I have no love myself for the Danes. And what matters more in life than what tales men tell of you?”

King Alfred laughed.  
“And little enough for the English, I wager. How old are you, boy?"

“I will see eighteen years at this Samhain.”

“And is this Godric of Mercia your master?” asked the king.

The banner-thief hesitated briefly, but then raised his chin.  
“I am in service to him, yes.”

The king smiled at that.  
“Well, that boon is within my power to grant. You, however, will not immediately see the benefits of your master’s rise in station.”

The banner-thief rocked back onto his heels.  
“My lord?” he said suspiciously.

Alfred sighed.  
“You should be lauded as a hero for what you’ve done, but you and I both know that was never going to happen. I will not gladly harbor a king-killer in my country, not even a killer of pagan kings. I will absolve you of the crimes you’ve committed, and grant a title to your master, but there are things you must do for me first. After all, who better to help drive out these wiccas than another of their kind?”

The banner-thief opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again. He looked down at where his hands had clenched into fists on his thighs. It was worse than he had hoped for, but better than he had feared. This was not the first time men in power had taken more from him than they gave, and it would not be the last.  
He stood, trying hard to seem cool and unaffected, his mind already racing ahead. He could turn this to his advantage, he just had to find a new angle...

“What is it you wish me to do?”

Alfred straightened and stepped around the dead Dane.  
“You may take whatever you want from him and then join me in the fortress to discuss these matters.”

The king had gone perhaps twenty paces when he stopped and called back.  
“By the way, what is your name, boy?”

The crouching young man paused in his search of the dead man’s clothing and looked up. He paused a moment, as if considering what to say, but then answered.

“My name is Salazar.”


	2. A Churchyard in Lundenwic

Ærra Geola, 879 AD

“We don’t both hafta be here to watch the wares, you know.” Sal said as they hauled baskets of their hard-earned salt out of the wagon and closer to the river.

“This is a madhouse, Sal, I’m not going anywhere right now.” Godric laughed in disbelief as he flung a hand out to gesture at ‘the madhouse’. The trading shore at Queenhithe was a writhing throng of people, all crushed together and bound and determined to get exactly what they needed, right now, everyone else be damned. It was a typical market. Godric had already skidded on fish guts at least twice, and they weren’t even anywhere near any fishmongers.

It had been a long journey to London, and the day would tell if it had been worth it.  
This was the first year that the Hal, under Godric’s exuberant leadership, had been able to produce salt from the river. It had been a tricky business, as they (read: Sal) had had to resort to a certain amount of sleight of hand to convince the Bishop of Worcester that the salt they were selling here in Lundenwic with his blessing had actually been produced in his boiling houses, and not in the dead of night on the shore of the Salwarpe via copious and intense use of hot-air charms. Bacca of the sceat, that eternal optimist, wouldn’t shut up about during the whole process about how the salt tasted funny and how using hot air charms on it would get them all strung up for witchcraft; Sal had eventually threatened to dump the whole load of it in Bacca’s precious fields instead of selling it. He had been much more helpful after that.

They and the villagers had evaporated salt by wand night after night during the long, hot summer, and now that the harvest season had ended they had made the long, cold journey to Lundenwic to sell their hard-earned wares.  
Once they had unloaded all the baskets from the cart, they settled in for the day; Godric used his height and roaring voice to attract customers, and once they came near enough for Salazar to pitch to, they inevitably walked away with emptier wallets and more salt than they knew what to do with.

Within a couple of hours their supply of salt to sell was dwindling and their moneybag was fit to burst.  
Godric had just flipped a coin happily and suggested that they pack up their wares for the day and treat themselves to a hot lunch when there was a sharp burst of screaming from the street just uphill from the wharf. Heads all along the river started turning as the crowd surrounding the source of the noise rippled out and away from whatever had happened; seconds later the movement intensified and a crush of people were forced into the merchants’ area along the bank. 

Without hesitation, Godric plunged into the stream of people retreating downhill, ignoring Salazar’s shout that it was none of his business. Behind him, his friend rolled his eyes sharply, stuffed their moneybag into his tunic, and waded in after him.  
Despite the difficulty in pushing against the current of the crowd, they quickly approached the source of the panic – Godric had reached a formidable height, even at 19, and with the way he was filling out people tended to move out of his way. Salazar followed in his wake, trying to skim as much as he could from the surfaces of minds passing by.

“Godric, whatever happened – it’s definitely wiccung. These mocelas are terrified an’ half of them are prayin’ for salvation.”

“I can tell that for myself, Sal – look up!”

Ahead of them, hovering in the air above whatever had happened, was some kind of dark cloud. A deafening droning filled the air as they approached, and they slowed down as they realized simultaneously that the cloud was made up of thousands and thousands of bees. Several skeps had been knocked over near the edge of the street, where two foreign women were standing, both staring up at the cloud in disbelief.

A third person, an Englishman by the looks of him, stood just downhill of the women, red-faced and sweating in fear at the sight of the enormous swarm. He held some kind of document in one hand and seemed to have been accosting one of the women, as he had a scrap of her sleeve clenched in the other fist.  
“You’re-you-a wicce! Wiccung!” He stuttered, face graying to the color and appearance of curdled milk in his fear. Godric and Salazar came up behind him as the swarm started to move faster in the sky.

“Is there some kind of problem here?” Godric asked, all good manners as they approached.

“P-problem? Are you blind?! This woman was threatening me, and when I defended myself she used her heathen powers to summon these bees!” the man shouted shrilly.

The taller woman stepped forward haughtily, ready to defend her companion, but Godric was faster.

“Let me rephrase that – it’s time for you to go now and leave these women alone.” Godric stated, still with the same genial smile on his face.

The man’s eyes bulged out even further and he stumbled backwards, throwing his arms above his head and screaming to the masses above and below them on the street -  
“Help! Help! They’re all wiccas!”

Unfortunately for him, the already-riled swarm of bees was disturbed by his movements; there was little warning before the dark cloud turned and swept down on the unprotected crowd like a hurricane.

Both Godric and the taller woman reacted immediately, raising shields above themselves and their companions, but the terrified Englishman was not so lucky; he was in the immediate path of the cloud pouring down the street toward the river and died where he stood.

Luckily for the four of them, the shields held well against the onslaught of angry bees until the swarm had passed on its way to cross the Thames.

Less luckily, most of the mocelas who escaped being stung to death looked uphill and saw four people standing unscathed, with two wands raised to the sky.  
Erroneous or not, it was not a hard conclusion to make that those wands were responsible for the unholy and unnatural incident which had just occurred.

The four looked downhill and saw hundreds of confused, fearful and angry mocelas staring back at them. A susurrus of suspicion swept up the hill, and this built quickly into a roar as seemingly everyone present at Queenhithe at once decided they were at fault and should be held responsible.

Seconds later they were engulfed in the forming mob and swept away from one another; thankfully separated from one another and with wands hastily put away they were much less recognizable to the violent and vengeful hive mind of the crowd.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The black-haired man slid up to her side in the growing chaos, but when he leaned in to speak Helga pushed him back.

“You’ll step on the bees!”

She was blushing hotly even as she said it, aware of how silly it sounded, but she met his gaze squarely.

He pulled a strange face of wryly amused annoyance, but he looked where he put his feet when he moved close again. 

“Sorry, it’s just that they came to my aid and they got so hurt because of me-” she got out in one fast burst, embarrassed.

“You don’t hafta apologize to me. I understand the value of allies.” he had to shout to be heard over the riotous din. She watched the big man with the mane of hair go past, grappling with a mocel even bigger than himself. 

“They’re my friends, not my allies!” she shouted back.

He shrugged.

“Same thing when it comes down to it, ain’t they? Listen! I didn’t come over here to talk philosophy – we needta get out of here! Where’s your Danish friend?”

Helga turned and scanned the crowd quickly, soon finding the Lady a scarce fifteen feet away, her pale hair a beacon in the sea of people.

But they were quickly being swept further apart from one another; the crowd was only growing larger and angrier and the force of it would soon focus in on what it had originally gathered against. They were running out of time.

She was startled when the black-haired man suddenly grabbed her hand.

“What are you doing?!” she shouted.

“Trust me, an’ just don’t let go!”

He began plowing his way through the crowd toward where she had last seen the Lady, hand clasped warmly in hers. To her shock no one protested their passing; it was like they had become invisible. It took them only a few minutes to push through to where the Lady stood, looking frantically around.

“There you are! Where did you go? I thought the crowd had gotten you!” she cried when she spotted Helga coming toward her.

“There’s time for that later; we needta get to the edge of this an’ find my idiot friend.” the black-haired man interrupted them. He was gritting his teeth and wore an expression of ferocious concentration as he plunged into the crowd again, the two women right behind him.

They had almost made it to the edge of the mob, and Helga had raised an arm to signal the big man fighting his way to join them, when the stone was thrown.

It clipped the black-haired man over the ear; his head snapped to the side and he clearly lost hold of whatever he had been concentrating so hard on. 

To Helga’s horror, the mocelas nearby immediately stopped shoving each other and turned toward the three of them, raising their weapons and shouting to alert the rest of the mob that the wiccas were here.

To her right, the Lady had frozen, staring at the sea of hateful faces around them. To her left, the black-haired man was clapping a hand to his head, eyes screwed shut and hissing in pain.

The crowd was buffeting them again, pushing them further away from clear streets and safety. Their window of opportunity to make a break for it and escape was withering away.

Helga Hafela-pyf charged.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That was amazing!”

“Shut up an’ run, Godric!”

“But did you see the way she-listen, have you ever played at ball?”

“Later, Godric!”

The four of them were running for their lives, hurtling uphill and west along the streets of Lundenwic.

“We will never be able to outrun these people. We need to seek refuge somewhere!” The Lady shouted.

The big, mane-haired man – Godric, apparently – scowled at that, but seemed to reluctantly agree.

“We can go to the cathedral of St. Paul, it’s very close by.”

“No, Godric.”

Godric glared at his friend.

“Are you just trying to disagree with everything I say?”

“...no.”

“Arggh!”

“Come on, St. Paul’s is too close an’ popular. That’s the first place they’ll look for us.”

“Well, where do you suggest, then?” snapped the Lady.

“St. Bride’s is a little further but it’s much smaller. We oughtta be able to defend it with only four.”

Helga looked around, trying to ignore their bickering; as the hill steepened, they were passing an enormous building and churchyard that she could only assume was the cathedral they spoke of.

The Lady spoke up again, frowning.

“How do you know where-” she was interrupted by an arrow, shooting down over the nearest roof and landing among their feet.

They all stared at it for a moment. Mobs don’t shoot arrows, after all, but soldiers do.

More soon followed in a deadly hail; the Lady and Godric raised a shield above their heads and they continued running without a word of argument.

Having crossed the Fleot, they were now quickly approaching St. Bride’s church, a square little building built with blocks of sandy stone. The distant noise of the mob was growing into a roar as the four of them skidded into the churchyard; Godric immediately ran to try the door while the Lady turned to face her shield toward the mocelas.

Helga, looking frantically around the churchyard for anything that would help them break down the door, was stunned to see the black-haired man doing...nothing.

He was standing still by the north-eastern corner of the yard, facing away from the road and the mob.

“What are you doing? Help me find something to force the door!”

But he took no notice of her, and when she ran around to his front and shook him, his eyes flew open in surprise, like he had been in a trance.

To her shock he seized her shoulders in return.

“D’you hear that?” he asked her, eyes wide. She didn’t think he was only looking at her.

“What are you talking about?! Have you-”

But he didn’t even appear to hear her question, dropping her shoulders and bolting around the corner of the church, out of sight.

She turned in consternation to the church, where Godric was making significant progress against the door. 

The priests of London, acutely aware of the power of magic, had made the characteristic priestly decision to protect their churches from wiccas with the same magic they possessed, outwardly condemning it to the masses while using it themselves in secret.

But the priests of London were not themselves wiccas, and the estranged protections placed on the church were slowly buckling under Godric’s repeated blasts against them.

The Lady, having witnessed that exchange, was just opening her mouth to shout to Godric that his friend had either gone mad or abandoned them when the black-haired man skidded back around the corner.

“Leave the door, Godric!” he shouted. 

When they all just turned and looked at him like he had lost his mind, he gestured in the direction of the mob, barely a quarter mile distant now.

“Come on! I found a place we can hide for now that the mocelas can’t get to!”

Shrugging, Godric left the half-splintered door and jogged around the corner of the church after his friend.

Helga and the Lady looked at each other.

After a moment, Helga turned to follow them. After all, the strange pair hadn’t let them down yet; that was good enough for her. 

When she turned the corner to the south-eastern section of the yard, she saw for herself what the black-haired man had discovered. 

A small holy well sat innocuously by the church’s boundary well, identical to any of the dozens of such wells in Lundenwic. Less normal was the set of rough-hewn stone steps at the well’s base, leading northward down into a dark passageway that sloped and disappeared beneath the ground. 

The black-haired man had already jogged halfway down the steps, gesturing at them to follow. Godric was right behind him, lighting his wand as he went.

Helga moved forward with every intention of following the two men, but the Lady grabbed her by the arm.

“Wait!” she said harshly. Her face had paled in the late morning light, nearly to the color of the snow coating the ground around them. 

Godric paused on the steps and the second man popped his head back up over the wall of the stairway, quirking an eyebrow.

“Whatever is the matter?” Godric asked her, face open and concerned.

“This is insane. You and your thrall-you’re just going to lead us into this mysterious underground passageway, with no care for the potential dangers? I-we don’t even know you! How can we trust you?”

Helga kept from frowning only because of long practice; she doubted the Lady even noticed how she had started talking in the plural without thinking to ask what 

Helga’s opinion on the matter actually was. But this wasn’t new to her, and by the way the black-haired man rolled his eyes at the Lady’s outburst behind her back he had picked up on it too. 

He leaned on the stone wall, insouciant despite the growing roar of the crowd not two streets away now.

“Well, you could come with us an’ risk the tunnel despite your lack of...trust. Or you could stay here an’ negotiate with the horde of English mocelas who will be here in less than two minutes, bayin’ for our blood, an’ who have special reason to hate Danes.” he shrugged with a glint in his eye. It seemed to Helga that he was trying not to laugh – but at what, she didn’t know. 

After this declaration, he winked at Helga and disappeared into the darkness beneath the well.

Godric, however, seemingly unwilling to leave anyone to a fate of mob justice, came further back up the steps, extinguishing his wand, and started to speak.

“My lady, I-”

At that moment the front of the mob spilled into a neighboring street, within view of the church, and the Lady seemed to reach a decision – despite her clear reluctance to enter the tunnel, she took a deep breath and practically flew past Godric down the steps.

Helga, painfully relieved that that had been resolved, hurried herself down the steps after them, noting curiously as she went that a rough little carving of a snake was inscribed on the lintel of the stone doorway framing the tunnel. It seemed an odd thing to find in a Christian churchyard, but then again there was much in this country that she found odd, and so she thought nothing more of it.

She heard Godric jump down the last few stairs behind her; as he did so, the entrance to the churchyard seemed to almost melt away, closing up until the four of them stood together in absolute darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions about the story or just want to chat in general, come say hi on Tumblr at Porsena!


	3. What Lies Beyond

Ærra Geola, 879 AD

A faint rushing noise could be heard within the close and tomb-like blackness of the tunnel. When Godric relit his wand, Helga saw that the black-haired man had pressed his ear up against the rough stone wall.

“It sounds like this tunnel probably follows the Fleot.” he said, stepping away.

“The what?” snapped the Lady. She was pressing hard against the nearest wall, straight-armed, as if she could expand the tunnel by doing so. Admittedly, she probably could if she wanted to...nevertheless, something seemed off with her. 

Helga opened her mouth to ask what ailed her, but then shut it again, remembering the proud woman who had stepped in to defend her, a stranger, on the hill above the wharf simply because that now-deceased Englishman had insulted her as a woman. It seemed highly unlikely that the woman would appreciate having her weakness pointed out in front of two more strange men.

Well, Helga thought, cheerfully determined, they might as well not be strangers then!

“So!” Helga clapped her hands together. “Shall we introduce ourselves to one another? I think we are safe here underground for the moment. Shouldn’t be too long until we can go back up!” This last was directed at the Lady, who was still pale-faced and sweating, bracing herself against the close tunnel wall.

The black-haired man twisted around to look at her from where he had been peering into the strangely greenish gloom further down the tunnel. 

“Aren’t you even a little curious about where this goes?”

Helga shrugged.

“Not really – it’s a bit damp for my tastes.”

Godric straightened and lifted his wand higher, trying to illuminate more of the tunnel.

“Well I certainly am. But I agree that we should introduce ourselves if we are to spend the next few hours together regardless of where we do it. My name is Godric Gerefa-hinder.” His voice was a rumble, even at nineteen, and the name rolled out like a peal of thunder.

The Lady frowned in confusion and finally stood away from the wall.

“That doesn’t sound like the kind of name you would have...”

“That’s ‘cause it ain’t.” the black-haired man said, rolling his eyes. “When are you gonna stop introducin’ yourself to people like that?”

“When I’ve finally earned something better for myself!” Godric countered hotly.

“What’s wrong with just Godric?”

Godric scoffed.

“Even an insulting title is better than being nameless and unknown.”

The black-haired man narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“Do you ever listen to yourself talk, or are your thoughts of glory just too loud to hear anything else?”

Helga jumped in to interrupt what seemed like a brewing argument.

“My name is Helga! I carry the name Hafela-pyf also.”

The Lady nodded in approval.

“That’s a good name.”

“Yeah, maybe if you’re a Dane.”

“For fuck’s sake Godric, she is a Dane.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not a Dane.” Helga said, confused.

The black-haired man looked at her askance.

“You’re not?”

“Wait, she doesn’t even look like a Dane, Sal!”

“Well you don’t look like an idiot, an’ yet here we are!”

They briefly and enthusiastically scuffled across the tunnel, fetching up against the opposite wall and narrowly avoiding the lady, who shoved at them irritably.

“Are you children? Stop that!”

They stepped apart and straightened their clothes, Godric smiling sheepishly and his friend rolling his eyes.

“So you ain’t in service to her?” he asked her pointedly.

Helga shook her head. “We only just met today.”

“And a fortuitous meeting it was.” The lady broke in. “My name is Rowena Ubb-hmm. Hraefnclawu. And Helga, you have such an interesting second name – I’d love to hear the story behind that at some point.”

“Oh, it’s not that interesting, lady.”

Rowena fixed her with a piercing gaze. “There’s no such thing as an uninteresting story.”

“Well, thank you very much, Lady. And what did you say your name was again?” Helga turned to the black-haired man, smiling at him.

He shrugged. “I’m just Sal, no long fancy names to worry about here.” He shot a pointed glare at Godric, who at least managed to look sheepish.

“We’ll think of something for you too!” Helga said cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder.

“It should be alliterative as well.” Rowena said, sounding amused.

She was met with two openly confused faces and Sal’s raised eyebrow.

“Do none of you know what alliterative means? No?” She sighed heavily.  
“It means that two words both begin with the same sound, like Helga Hafela-pyf, Godric Gerefa-hinder...do you see the pattern now?” She shook her head.

“The education in this country really is poor. If you don’t even know how your own language works, how can you possibly understand the principles of seiðr? It’s a bit pathetic, honestly.”

There was a long, tense silence at her words.

“Maybe if you people an’ your invading hordes hadn’t wrecked the whole place, we woulda actually been able to learn something. Sorry we’re too stupid to have learned your fancy words while we were runnin’ for our lives.” Sal finally hissed out from between his clenched teeth.

Rowena looked down at him coolly.

“That’s no excuse. I had the finest magical education possible and it was given to me in war tents by vikingr and old women.”

Godric growled at that. “Is that what you call being taught curses and blood magic by oathbreakers and murderers?”

Rowena stepped right up, eyes blazing and matched him toe-to-toe. She was just about able to look him in the eye and took full advantage of this.

“Have a care for how you choose your words, unless you’d rather be unable to choose them at all.”

Godric’s hand twitched toward his belt but Rowena was much faster, laying a hand on her wand almost instantaneously.

“Please, I don’t think any of us exactly had the most traditional learning experience but there’s no need to fight about it!” Helga said loudly, wringing her hands.

Sal shot her an uninterpretable glance, scoffing and turning away from them to stalk away down the tunnel.

“There’s really no reason to fight at all. Why don’t we see what lies farther down the tunnel instead?” Helga suggested hopefully.

With one last baleful glare cast at each other, Godric and Rowena separated.

“Fine. But I’m not spending any more time with you people than I absolutely have to.” the lady snapped.

The four of them walked in silence for a few minutes. The tunnel had begun to slope downwards slightly, the walls becoming rougher and the sound of the river grew louder as they followed it along, audible now even without putting an ear to the stone.

Out of nowhere, Rowena spoke up.

“Sjálf-viljandi”

There was a brief pause.

“Bless you.” said Sal, sardonically.

Rowena, who had begun to blush even before anyone responded to her, scowled.

“I just thought it fit you.”

“Oh, it’s a name!” Helga exclaimed, clapping once in realization. 

Rowena huffed.

“I really meant what I said before about the state of your education.”

Sal raised an eyebrow.

“We wouldn’t have learned to speak your language even if we had all gone to school.”

“Well, you should have.”

“What does it mean, Lady – sjalvandi, was it?” Helga asked curiously.

“Close – it’s sjalf-viljandi. It means ‘of one’s own accord’.”

Sal looked vaguely impressed, but Godric interrupted before he could respond.

“I don’t know, I think sardheafod fits him better.”  
Sal shoved him, face reddening. Helga thought he looked at her very quickly, but she wasn’t sure.

“Don’t be vulgar in front of the ladies, Godric!”

Godric looked at him like he had lost his mind.

“When have you ever given a care to what other people think, especially about vulgarity? Or was it someone else I’m remembering who made a game out of swearing where the priest could hear us but not see us when we were children?”

Sal rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. He couldn’t quite conceal a mischievous smirk from breaking out, however, and didn’t contradict Godric.

Helga laughed loud and full at that, surprising herself, while Rowena rolled her eyes.

“Typical. Boys are the same everywhere.”

“Lady, you speak quite often when no one has asked for-”

“Wait – do you see that?” Rowena said sharply, interrupting Godric. She peered through the gloom and pushed his arm, still holding the lit wand aloft, higher in order to see better, completely ignoring his resulting growl of irritation.

Perhaps thirty feet further down the tunnel, the path abruptly ended. A sort of rough doorway could be seen there, constructed of three slabs of stone. Beyond that it was utterly dark; the wandlight did not penetrate there.

The sound of the river was now a roar, and Sal had to shout just to be heard.

“I’ve seen structures like this before – I think this is a tomb. We oughtta be careful here.”

Godric looked at him a little strangely, but Rowena just rolled her eyes.

“Don’t let your ignorant superstitions frighten you. The dead are dead and will remain so.”

He scoffed, raising an eyebrow.

“You definitely never saw the inside of a wizard’s tomb before if you think a man can’t be dangerous after his own death.”

She glared at him, looking down contemptuously.

“Don’t patronize me, thrall.”

Sal’s returned glare was like poison.

“I’m patronizing you? I ain’t the one who’s mistakin’ a healthy dose of self-preservation for fear an’ a lack of education for stupidity! It’s a bit rich besides for you to be accusin’ me of being scared when you didn’t even want to come down here.” he hissed.

Helga was wringing her hands, looking back and forth between them.

“Oh, will you please stop fighting? Can’t you see how much you have in common?” she chastised them anxiously.

They both stared at her in disbelief.

“In common?” They said in unison. Looking at each other suspiciously, they turned away toward opposite sides of the tunnel, leaving Helga to look at Godric in consternation. He just shrugged.

After a minute of teeth-grinding, Sal spat to the side and stalked forward toward the door.

“I ain’t gonna stand for anyone implyin’ I’m a coward.”

He passed out of the pool of wandlight, through the strange greenish gloom, and disappeared through the door, swallowed up by the blackness beyond.

Godric whooped and immediately jogged off after his friend, thoughtlessly taking the light with him.

It went out the instant he passed under the lintel.

“Oðinn auga, you’re a pair of idiots.” Rowena said loudly, lighting her own wand angrily and storming after them. 

Helga, not wanting to be left alone in the strange tunnel, hurried along in Rowena’s wake, passing through the door just moments after her.

Many years later, they would not agree on whether passing through that door had ultimately been a mistake or the wisest action any of them had ever taken. But for now, they were young, and unaware of the effects one’s actions can have on the future in the way that the young often are.

When they had all passed under the lintel, they found a small round room with no discernible exits. At the center of it lay a roughly-hewn stone cist. Placed carefully around the cist were grave goods of considerable age, gold shining bright as the day it was formed and bronze darkened by time. Jewelry, coins, weapons – all the belongings the interred must have owned in life and more. A magnificent chariot stood against one wall.

Helga stepped into the room last. She saw Godric, admiring the chariot’s design. She saw Sal, staring narrow-eyed at a gold, collar-like necklace lying in a puddle on the eastern wall. And she saw Rowena bend down to pick up a lone stray coin off the floor next to the cist. The instant her fingers closed around it, she was yanked away into nothingness in a swirl of color. Helga cried out in surprise at this, causing Sal to whip around. He took in the situation immediately.

“No one else touch anything!” he bit out urgently.

Godric, whose hands were hovering inches above one of the chariot’s wheels, pulled them away like he had been burned and spun around.

“Helga, what happened? Where did the lady Rowena go?” Godric shouted.

“She-she just disappeared!” she stuttered out, shocked.

“What happened right before that? She do anything, touch anything?” Sal snapped.

“Yes-yes.” Helga swallowed. “She picked a coin up from the floor.”

“And where was the coin?”

“Besides the box in the middle of the room.” She pointed to the spot where it had been, on the north side of the cist. 

“We have to go after her, of course!” Godric declared. He grabbed the nearest coin, but nothing happened.

Sal rubbed his forehead and sighed through his nose. 

“Didn’t I say we should be careful?” he muttered to no one in particular.   
“Godric, we don’t even know where she went. There’s no guarantee that we’ll end up in the same place even if we can find another coin to transport us.”

“We have to make some kind of attempt! We can’t just abandon her!” he cried, clenching his fists.

Sal shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like she weren’t ready to do just that to us at the first opportunity.”

“That’s not true! She stood by me when that man accused me up on the street!” Helga stepped forward.

Sal wrinkled his nose and threw up his hands, not saying anything while they began searching the room. He just leaned against an empty patch of wall, crossed his arms, and watched them do it. 

He did, however, jerk forward in surprise when Godric touched an iron sword hanging on the wall not far from where the coin had been and disappeared as well in another nauseating swirl.  
The light went out.

Helga stared blindly in the direction of the array of objects where Godric had been standing. She walked toward the pile slowly, hearing Sal move to join her in the dark.

“I don’t suppose you have a tinderbox?” She asked.

With a rushing noise, firelight filled the room; when she looked over her shoulder she saw him holding flames in his hand. She just managed to suppress her normal reaction to seeing someone’s hand on fire.

“You a witch or not?” he smirked at her, but the whites of his eyes showed in the flickering light. He was as spooked as she was. 

She laughed nervously and said nothing. Honestly? She thought silently. I don’t really know.   
She must have imagined the strange look he threw at her immediately after.

Without saying a word, they both moved forward and began picking up things from the pile.

Within minutes, Helga’s fingers brushed the rim of a bronze bowl, and she was gone.

Sal stared at the place where the bowl had been.

“Is my life ever gonna be normal?” he asked the room. Reaching forward to pick up another one of the numerous collar-like necklaces scattered around, he could have sworn he heard a phantom voice laughing at him as the room melted around him.

In their absence, the greenish gloom remained, as it had, and would continue to do, for time untold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, again if you have any questions or just want to chat feel free to come say hi on Tumblr at Porsena!
> 
> Glossary:  
> Aerra Geola – December (Old English)  
> Fleot – a river of London (Old English)  
> Gerefa-hinder – reeve-behind (Old English). Original form of Gryffindor.  
>  Reeve – somewhat equivalent to a modern sheriff.  
> Hafela-pyf – head-puff (Old English). Original form of Hufflepuff.  
> Hrafn-klo – raven-claw (Old Norse). Original form of Ravenclaw.  
> Seiðr – one form of magic in Old Norse culture (Old Norse)  
> Vikingr – Vikings/pirates (Old Norse)  
> Sjalf-viljandi – of one’s own accord (Old Norse)  
> Sardheafod – fuckhead (Old English)  
> Thrall – slave (Old Norse)  
> Oðinn auga – Odin’s eye (Old Norse)  
> Cist – A “small stone-built coffin-like box or ossuary used to hold the bodies of the dead.” Wikipedia.

**Author's Note:**

> Wicce/wiccas – witch, witches  
> Wiccung – witchcraft/magic  
> Mocel/mocelas – muggle/muggles, lit. muck-person  
> Welsh – a general term for a Celt, a little derogatory  
> Gerefa-hinder – lit. the “reeve-behind”  
> Hal – secret place, corner


End file.
